


Team up

by dragon_rider



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is a Hunter who travels the road alone. Leonard McCoy is a Man of Letters who works on his own too. A chance encounter brings them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Team up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [graphic](http://johnreapergrimm.tumblr.com/post/60369937961/supernatural-au-hunter-jim-meets-man-of).

There’s a huge job in the middle of nowhere, big enough Jim isn’t expecting to work alone on it. As much as he likes flying solo, he’s not suicidal—well, at least not that much, not yet—and even if he won’t ask for help, he’s ready to welcome whoever gets there along with him.

What he’s not ready for, it’s to arrive after two days of driving non-stop only to find a pile of bodies twice as large as it was before. It almost feels like it’s already too late because the town is (was?) small and there are so many children lying bloody in front of his face.

He’s no stranger to death or helplessness, but he shuts his eyes tight all the same.

It’s only when he opens them that he realizes he’s got company. The guy’s wearing a fancy and custom-tailored suit, which subtracts a few points in Jim’s book but he seems pretty shaken by the carnage and that adds some so Jim gives him the benefit of the doubt and stares.

He’s tall and well-built and seems legit enough to be FBI, but his eyes linger on details normal people don’t even know they should be looking for so Jim takes him for what he is and tries to rein his temper for the upcoming mockery and uppity parade.

This isn’t the first time he’s crossed paths with a Man of Letters and he’s sure it won’t be the last either. He hates the lot, hates how quick they are to judge and assume when it comes to Hunters and how they refuse to acknowledge sometimes you just have to slice and burn and break and that’s it, there’s no other solution or time to come up with it.

He looks around for the last time, but there are no Hunters and he needs help and he sure as hell won’t let his pride interfere with saving the lives there are still here to save.

“Agent,” he teases, although he’s so mad it sounds downright insulting. He extends his hand quickly to make up for it and introduces himself, “Jim Kirk.”  
The Man of Letters deepens the frown he was sporting already, assesses him with the same mild annoyance Jim feels and says, shaking his hand firmly, “McCoy, Leonard McCoy.”

His name doesn’t seem to ring any bell in McCoy’s head, which Jim is grateful for. He’s done things he’s not proud of and he knows he must be the epitome of brute for them. He wants nothing but to go outside and shoot a whole clip of his gun, but he tamps it down and decides he wants to impress this sourly looking man more and to do that he has to stay and appear somewhat reasonable.

“What do you say, McCoy?” he licks his lips, tilts his head toward the corpses and shrugs. He remembers these guys usually come in pairs and eyes the door, but no one comes so he asks casually, “Should we work together or pretend we didn’t see each other?”

He’s testing him and by the sharp look McCoy gives him, he’s quite aware of it.  Jim likes that and he feels his anger descending a notch and then plummeting fast when McCoy shakes his head and replies, a barely-there Southern cadence in his words, “This is no one-man job. I’d like a partner, if you don’t mind.”

Jim nods and they get down to business.

The town doesn’t have a morgue or anything really, so there’s no one to bother them and Jim doesn’t even have to sneak out to change to his cheap fake FBI outfit. He takes a mental note to buy at least one decent one after this and another to check if the Men of Letters take him the slightest bit more seriously when (if) he does.

McCoy insists they inspect each and every neck before giving a name to their killer (it screams vampire nest to Jim but he concedes since he couldn’t find anything to track the fuckers down yet and maybe they will if they do that) and extends a pair of latex gloves to him. Jim puts them on and spends the rest of the day assisting McCoy to dissect some bodies he’d picked to analyze further.

They get crumbs of new information, but it’s better than nothing and Jim has to hand it to the guy; he knows what he’s doing and he’s tough too, a combo Jim is quite fond of.

It takes a bit of convincing, but he accepts to rent a room in the only motel of the place with Jim. None of them is going to sleep anyway so they might as well keep working together.

If he’s going to survive this, he needs a drink and he couldn’t care less what a Man of Letter thinks of him because of that. He takes his keys and retrieves a six-pack from the cooler in his car and comes back only to find him opening a bottle of Jack Daniels and pouring two fingers in a glass.

He quirks an eyebrow at Jim, eyes the beers in his hand and Jim doesn’t even have to open his mouth before he’s offering another glass to him, which Jim takes with a smile. He groans in appreciation at feeling the burn in his throat and he wonders if this is the reason McCoy travels by his own, if none of his fellows approve of this particular habit, if they think it makes him less to be human, to need something to go through all this shit they’ve chosen for a life.

If they do, well, fuck them.

It’s 5 o’clock in the morning and they’re both in their last glass but still wide awake when McCoy asks, standing by the window and looking directly at Jim’s car parked outside, “Nice ride. Why do you drive it?”

Jim’s temporary partner doesn’t sound sardonic and that’s a first. He owns a 1972 Mercury Marquis convertible that absolutely everyone, including Hunters, thinks it’s over-the-top and stupid because it’s red and conspicuous. Nobody has ever entertained the idea of him actually having a reason (besides being a sucker for attention, which he won't deny he is sometimes) and he’s too stunned to answer for a moment.

He tries to seem nonchalant when he finally says, “It belonged to my Father. He died on a hunt.” _The day I was born_ , he doesn’t say, _because of me._

The mandatory _I’m sorry_ also sounds different coming from him, too genuine to be compared with the ones Jim has heard since he’s old enough to remember, and he can’t deal with it. He gulps the rest of his drink, slams the glass on the table and goes back to talking about the case.

They make a good team which is more than surprising, all things considered. McCoy handles a gun as deftly as he handles a scalpel but he doesn’t get in Jim’s way in the slightest and he even seems impressed once they’re done.

Jim tries not to ponder on the fact he’s never had someone to impress before, not really. This was a one-time-only thing, it won’t be repeated and he probably won’t see McCoy again.

Which is why, of course, it makes all the sense in the world to act like that isn’t the case at all and give the guy his number before starting the engine. “Give me a call when you want to spice things up. I’ll see you around.”  
McCoy is almost smiling when he answers,  “I will. Bye, Kirk.”

It’s only when he stops for gas hours later that he spots the bottle in his trunk, McCoy’s number scrawled on a note inside the box along with a teasing _if you’re going to drink, drink the good stuff._


End file.
